This post continues a series (first post, previous post) which discuss a suicide crisis which took place approximately a year ago, and my subsequent treatment. Partly it’s therapy for me. Partly it’s to demystify what for many people is an opaque and frightening subject, which I believe should be spoken about more, and with more frankness. But obviously this could work as a trigger. Tread with care.
Oh my GOD this is embarrassing do you remember holidays in Wales your brother’s jacket and castles a sting of hot vinegar in your eyes – chips! – I mean I love them all so much it hurts it hurts; I have a niece, she is beautiful, it hurts it hurts…
I’m sitting, this is awkward, I’ve no more tears left and my throat hurts. There are forms, an officer sits with me and asks me questions. He’s young, attractive.
Scratch attractive, he’s gorgeous. Cockney accent and gleam in his eye, handcuffs suggestive at his side; I try to joke with him – oh my God, he’s going to think I’m unhinged or something! – I try to
“hospital. Do you understand what”
Violet sky in the forest black trees in fading autumn light plugged into my Walkman walking twilight violet light fading. Yes, I understand, I say.
Scratch attractive, he’s gorgeous. I smile. I try to give a good impression. Aim to please. We go through the paperwork, my throat is sore, I’m tired, I understand.
What the fuck am I doing here? I need to get back to work, I just walked out I I I try to give a good impression, he’s gorgeous! I smile. I understand. He asks how tall I am, my eye colour, date of birth, birthday, they always spelled my name wrong, Mrs Wright was kind, she showed us a snowdrop – catch myself. Good impression. He’s gorgeous. Next of kin? I answer. What the fuck am I doing here?
We’re moving. Tommy’s doesn’t take sections from the police, I understand, we’re driving through London. My God this is embarrassing, he’s going to think I’m unhinged or gorgeous. Awkward. Sitting, I close my eyes; no more trying, tired, falling through London, hurting, fading.